


The Place Where Gravity Fails

by Shirokokuro



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: (Well he's trying anyway.), (lots of angst), AU travel elements, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Arguments, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Coma, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Jack Drake is a Good Parent, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post Red Robin #26, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Tim is #best detective, We're talking a lot about death today folks, What-If, resolutions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Tim gets a chance to lead the life he wants—at the expense of the life he already has.(Post Red Robin #26)





	The Place Where Gravity Fails

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking some major notes from BTAS' Perchance to Dream with this one. Also, this is going to discuss some pretty depressing topics, so if you're in a really bad place right now, I wouldn't recommend reading this. Consider this a trigger warning in that regard. Your mental health is always more important. <3

“I’m looking for a job,” Tim says, back leaned against the outside of a door. The cool metal is digging into the shoulder blades of his jacket, steeling the skin underneath, but Tim’s too dedicated to appearances to shift. He’s returning the gaze of a camera that’s watching him from the other side of the alleyway, the red eye blinking. Tim’s certain the voice behind the door is looking through its lens, and eye contact is key in these moments. Tim would certainly hate for them to think him rude.

And speaking of rude—

“We’re not hiring,” a man grunts from the other side. The words have a slur. Must be something dangling from his lips—a cigarette from the smell that slips beneath the door. Tim recognizes the drawl regardless. 

“That’s not what I heard,” the teen counters, tilting his head at the camera. “What I heard was that you were low on manpower. D.A. Rois giving you a rough time, huh?”

A pause.

“Whatever you’re selling, kid, the Golden Dragons aren’t buying.”

Tim shrugs, casual, before readjusting the biker goggles he’s wearing. They’re gaudy and conspicuous, the sides fat enough that it obstructs his peripherals, but he’s not looking for a fight tonight—just a disguise that covers as much of his face as possible. 

“Fair enough,” Tim replies. He sticks his hands in his pockets and uses his elbows to push himself upright off the door. “Perhaps the Hanoi Ten will have more use for my skills. Word on the street is they’ve got more influence than you, anyway.”

The door slams open.

Tim feigns surprise at the man who bursts out—Eddie, he remembers. It’s hard to forget the shock of hair dyed snow white. One of the man’s tattoos, the crimson fire off a dragon, peeks out from underneath the sleeve of his dress shirt when he grabs Tim by the scruff of his collar and yanks him back to the front of the door. “Stay here,” Eddie hisses, the tip of his cigarette lighting the dark an inch from Tim’s nose.

The door slams shut.

Tim checks to make sure the hood of his jacket is still covering his hair with a huff, playing it indignant for the camera. It’s still observing him, reorienting itself when he shuffles from side to side, so he returns his hands to his pockets and pretends to search the smog for rain. It’s hard to tell with the bend of the buildings blocking out the sky, but if anything, it would rain acid more than water. The light pollution paints everything here urochrome at night, verdigris in the day. Both shades broil angrily and churn out miasma like a storm. It’s little wonder why so many people wear surgical masks anymore. Gotham is the paradigm of an urban heat island, a bacterial paradise.

A jet of steam spews out from a vent nearby, angry agreement, and a startled rat skitters out and into a sewer drain. Tim can smell the decay from where he stands, the stench of rot and melted plastic lining his lungs when he breathes. He hopes he won’t be out here much longer.

Thankfully, Eddie’s back after a short twenty seconds.

There are a few voices—some in Cantonese, some in English—from behind the door before Eddie’s standing in front of him again. He looks Tim over like he would prefer to knock the teen’s teeth out (He can give it his best shot.) but secretly knows his boss would slit his throat for attempting. Instead, Eddie grips Tim’s wrist and drags him in. 

The teen was already aware of the fact this hideout was a restaurant, but it’s still odd to see plates, pots, and shipping containers neatly stacked on shelves. Tim doesn’t get time to adapt to the environment, as he’s already being tugged into one of the back rooms. The space was probably meant to be something innocuous, an office perhaps, in lieu of what it actually is, and Tim sees the exact person he was hoping to.

Lynx takes over the room well, her boots kicked up on the desk while she plays with one of her daggers. The knife is tossed up, stripes of window-blind light slicing its edge, until it slips back into her hand. She doesn’t look away from Tim the entire time, the alabaster of her mask glowing ominously in the shadowed room. 

“Thank you, Eddie,” the woman says. “I’ll handle things from here.”

Not a moment later, the lock clicks behind him, leaving Tim alone with someone who could give him a run for his money if he let his guard down. There’s potential for disaster in that (always is where Lynx is concerned), but Tim has a mission tonight. No room for games, pretenses, or…whatever this is between them.

The silence is palpable.

“You surprise me,” Lynx starts as soon as the footsteps fade. She tosses her dagger again, attention glued to Tim. “Missed me so much you came outside costume? Dangerous move, Red Robin.”

“This isn’t a social visit. I need information.”

Lynx’s head twists to the side, a playful smile working across her lips. The knife flashes. “Sad. I was hoping you were crossing a line.”

“I prefer to tow them, thanks,” Tim replies coolly, pulling a folded piece of paper out from the inside of his jacket and tossing it on the desk, it spinning in front of Lynx. The woman pins her attention to the object for a moment before moving to pick it up with her knife-free hand. “I’m looking for someone,” Tim explains in the interim. “Last I heard he was hiding out in your area, making calls to his son from the local payphones. Ring any bells?” 

Lynx breathes out an “ah” with melodrama, considering the file passively. “I saw him, yes. Don’t know if he’s still here, though.” She lets the paper fall back to the desk at the same time the blade hilt lands in her palm. “Digger Harkness. Interesting name. But I am curious: Why do _ you _ have interest?”

Tim phrases it as indifferently as he can. “He escaped from Iron Heights again the other month. I’d sleep better knowing he was off Gotham’s streets.”

“Perhaps I will bring him to you then. A gift? Can’t allow you in my territory, you know.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Lynx doesn’t catch the dagger this time. Instead, she watches it skewer the desk apathetically as if waiting for the wood to writhe in pain. “Sounds personal,” she concludes.

Tim doesn’t have it in him to deny the claim. "Do you know anything or not, Lynx? I don’t have time for this.”

Lynx seems surprised that Tim sounds so serious still, the first signs of concern flashing in her posture. The woman’s fingers settle on the forehead of her mask before pulling it back. It reveals a light gaze, appraising, like she’s torn between toying with Tim or commiserating.

Tim stays silent; he knows what she’s doing, and he’s too tired to deal with it right now. All he wants is Harkness. Then he can finally move on.

Naturally, Lynx pushes anyway, removing her feet from the desk to settle properly in her chair. “Red Robin,” she says, her voice a mix of levity and sympathy. “I may wear a villain’s mask, but I am no villain. You know this.”

She’s right: The statement’s not unfamiliar to Tim. She’s a Hong Kong operative—or so she told him months ago. Whether it’s a lie or not, Tim’s not sure, but she owes him for all the heat he took from Gordon for breaking her out. It’s what he’s counting on.

“If you’re really an ally, then you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

It takes a while, but Lynx is only human. Her tell shows—whether on purpose or accident, as she breaks eye contact first and looks out the window through the blinds. It’s started to rain, the saffron atmosphere melting like the sky’s fallen to meet the earth. The room rattles from the sound. 

“Last I heard,” Lynx folds wistfully, “Harkness is living on the outskirts of the Hanoi Ten. Apartment beside an Ao Dai shop. Number 208.” She slides Tim’s file across the desk with finality. “The intel is three days old, but I promise, that is all I know.”

Tim slips the paper back into his jacket. “I’ll look into it…. Thank you.” He thinks he knows the place, can check in on it within an hour, maybe earlier if he hurries. The moment Tim puts his hand on the doorknob, though, is the moment Lynx continues.

“We have a phrase for someone like you, you know.”

The way her voice echoes is faraway and rueful. Tim imagines she’s still looking out the window, and it makes him hesitate in a way he can’t discern. “We say they are someone with an iron mask. Not a bad meaning,” she admits calmly, “but lately, watching you, I wonder, always wearing iron… It gets very cold, doesn’t it?”

Tim opens his mouth, almost considers turning or speaking without fully knowing how to respond. If he even can.

“Thanks again for the help,” Tim decides flatly, staring down the exit. He leaves without answering.

* * *

As expected, the apartment wasn’t much of a break. The place was already gutted and barren by the time Tim got there to poke around. Still, the teen can pull call records from the corded phone, maybe talk to some people in the area and work from there. Tim just needs _ something _ to figure out Harkness’ next step. 

That debacle, however, is not Red Robin’s problem.

Or, it’s not _ supposed _ to be his problem, at least.

Tim’s been investigating Harkness in his spare time only, which is surprisingly plentiful at the moment now that he and Tam are permanently on the rocks. Insomnia has made for an excellent friend in the interim, and Tim’s considering adding pneumonia to that bingo card of maladies. 

Being out in a downpour is as good a place as any to try.

At the moment, Tim’s not doing anything in particular, just thinking listlessly as he gazes out at the nightlife of the Diamond District. Last he checked, brooding wasn’t a crime by any stretch of the imagination, and being twenty stories up in a watercolor world makes it easy for Tim’s brain to run away with him. All the neon-speckled lights are amplified, shooting through the prism rain, and the wind is tearing into the skin of Tim’s face around his mask. The storm itself is deafening.

Until it’s not.

"_Is. This. A. Bad. Time? _" 

Tim clicks his earpiece. "You're fine, Lonnie," he reassures, wringing the water out of his cape. Everything's drenched beyond the point of being comfortable by now, and Tim's wondering idly if he won't actually get pneumonia. "What've you got?"

"_Nothing. On. Your. True. Quarry. Sadly. However. I. Did. Find. An. Oddity. In. Wayne. Biotech. Records. _"

Tim quirks an eyebrow, hoping Lonnie can sense his interest. "What kind of 'oddity?'"

"_Redacted. Purchase. Of. 20. Grams. Of. Pentobarbitol. Last. Week. By. A. Lewis. Chershire." _

"Lewis Cheshire, huh?" Tim parrots. He's familiar enough with _ Alice in Wonderland _to see where this is going. He only wishes Tetch used more interesting aliases. "Alright, so either the Mad Hatter's leveling up from Nyquil, or he has someone he really doesn't like."

"_With. 20. Grams. Likely. The. Latter. _"

Tim nods once. "Agreed. See if you can’t pin down his location, and I’ll look into it."

The earpiece switches off again, the storm sounds flooding back with a pop rock crackle. Tim runs a hand over his face, more to wipe off the exhaustion than the rain, and heaves a sigh that comes out as a pulse of vapor. He’s really starting to feel these sleepless nights, although he didn’t realize how bad it was affecting him until just now, when a new presence makes itself known.

Tim's brows crease faintly when a black cape fans out a foot above him. The fabric is far away enough that it only frames his vision, doesn’t touch him, but still cuts off the rain, the howl of the storm quieting into the sharp snaps of rain on cape and a tempered wind. It’s a peaceful gesture. Tim decides to let it happen, indifferent, because there's only one person who can sneak up on him like this and they're not threatening.

That doesn't mean Tim's excited to talk, though.

It's a full minute before Tim breaks the silence, still watching the skyscrapered horizon bleed out its glow from beneath the cape. “I thought you hated the Diamond District."

“...Has that become part of the appeal?”

Tim doesn’t affirm the suggestion, trying to keep his emotions in check. This is the first time he and Bruce have talked for nearly a month, and the bite of their last conversation is still writhing in Tim's stomach like an angry serpent. The mistrust. The resentment. It all bubbles back up when Bruce proves nothing’s changed.

“You've been in communication with Lynx.”

"Ah," Tim drones. He was hoping his attempt at disguise would’ve held up better, although there's no use denying it now. Either way, the fact Bruce knows where he was proves a point. “And you’ve been following me. Obviously."

“I’ve been _concerned_.”

Tim snorts, wanting to retort that Bruce has a weird way of showing it, that if he trusted him in the first place, there wouldn’t be a need for this sorry excuse for a conversation, because he _didn't_ kill Harkness. Didn't break Bruce's rule. But Bruce doesn't want to hear any of that; the judgement's already been passed. Tim stands up, effectively rejecting the covering Bruce offered. He spends a second scanning Bruce’s face to see if he’s hurt by that, but Tim forgot that Bruce never gives anything away, especially not emotion.

“Thanks for the afterthought,” Tim digs again, unable to help himself. “But I’m doing just fine on my own, so if you'll excuse me." He makes to take out his grapnel, eager to leave, when a hand clamps around his wrist. Tim’s head snaps up to find Bruce a step too far into his personal space.

“You need to drop the Harkness case," he says.

Tim narrows his eyes, trying to register the intensity in Bruce's voice that isn't showing in his face. "Oh? We're just letting known criminals go free now, are we?"

Bruce's face deepens into a frown at the sarcasm, the rain tracing the wrinkles. "Flash can handle it. But you're too close to this one and you know it."

And Tim knows Bruce is right on that: He is too close.

But then again, that's kind of the point.

Tim shakes his head smally in frustrated disbelief, looking off to the side with his wrist still in Bruce's grip. A streak of lightning forks out over the highways in that direction, someplace over the mid-river, and it illuminates the pall in purple-blue strobes.

"It's going to catch up with you," Bruce continues, still with that stoney way about him that makes the back of Tim's neck heat in anger, "getting so invested. You're going to make a mistake sooner or later. Hence, my _concern_." Bruce waits, likely measuring the atmosphere before rephrasing, so genuine that it sounds fake coming from his mouth. "I'm worried about you."

And that does it.

"Don't," Tim snaps, finally prying his wrist free. "Don’t do that. Not after this long. You don't get to disappear for weeks and then act like a father to me. That’s not how this—"

"Your father's dead, Tim."

Tim didn't know he was still capable of full-body flinching, but he's too stunned to hide it. The teen just stares, eyes wide behind the mask.

"Jack's gone. And he’s not coming back no matter what you do." Bruce must read Tim’s shock, as a flicker of guilt shows in the way his posture slouches, the closest thing to a sigh Tim's ever seen him do. "I understand, Tim,” he tries again, “how you’re feeling. I do. But you have to let him go.”

Tim continues staring, trying to wipe the strangled vulnerability off his face but failing. "You actually think you know what you're talking about," he laughs mirthlessly, voice choked. "But you don’t. You don't know a thing about any of this."

It's Bruce's turn to look confused, like they're broaching ground they never have before. Tim can just imagine his thoughts. _ We've both lost our parents_, Tim fills in. _ What about your feelings wouldn't I understand? _

And Bruce just...has no idea.

"What are you talking about?" the man presses, taking another step closer that Tim counters with two steps back.

Tim opens his mouth, searching the air for the right reply. He doesn't know if he'd have answered, truthfully, if he'd have even been honest, because Tim can tell Bruce's comm link flickers on right then. The man lets it go, attention squarely on Tim while waiting for him to say something that he won’t. The last ring must sound because Bruce closes his eyes in something kin to vexation, finally allowing someone (probably Oracle) to fill him in on the details.

Tim feels stuck there until Bruce is done, so he turns his head out to where the lightning had struck earlier. The area that way’s masked with a strange static of calm, a storm that’s cried itself out, and Tim wishes he could reach out and touch a piece of that stillness. Just once.

Bruce exhales slowly through his nose, signaling Tim has his full attention again, but the teen doesn't look back. Doesn't need to. He can already hear Bruce taking out his grapnel.

"Go home, Tim. We'll talk more about this later."

"Whatever you say," Tim mutters quietly, non-committal. He doubts Bruce will take the time to find him later anyway. After all, he didn't even take the time to say goodbye. That much is obvious when Tim pulls his eyes back to find himself alone again.

He spends a while just standing there, unsure what to feel. At this point in his life, Tim wonders if feelings are even worth it most of the time.

After a minute of contemplation, his own earpiece sputters on, a much appreciated distraction. _ “Located. The. Shipment. Destination. Red. Bird. Wiring. You. Coordinates. Now.” _

“Thanks, Lonnie,” Tim says distractedly, trying to force all of his bad energy out through his airways to no avail. “I’m headed there now.” 

Coordinates blip through Tim’s lenses not a moment later, and he's off, watching the roof rush by below his feet before it cuts, leaving only the crystal glow of traffic lights below. There's that faintest space, then, where gravity fails, an ethereal mix in his stomach before the world pulls him back down. Tim used to love that sensation more than breathing, years ago, because it felt like the only time when his problems couldn’t catch him, life dissipating into nothing. He could just exist, independent of everything and everyone else. 

Weightless.

And yet, right now, stuck in the suspension between falling and flying, that place makes Tim feel more alone than anything else in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The idiom that Lynx referenced is this one: 鐵面無私 (literally "iron mask without self," referring to someone who is strictly impartial).


End file.
